Dancing Like Nobody's Watching
by Arbeewantsyou
Summary: [Billy Elliot]Set about two years after the film, Billy returns to Everington for a family Christmas. The story is told with a concentration on Michael. Rated for mainly for language.
1. The Letter

**The Letter**

**Authors Note **- I do not own any of the characters used in this fanfiction other than Tracey and Michael's father (although both characters were mentioned in the original film, neither were given any character or name).

Also, this is my first time writing a proper fanfiction, so any reviews and criticism is welcome! Please let me know if you find any mistakes in the writing.

Thank you and enjoy! Arbee x

-

'Michael, post!'

Michael Caffry's eyes flickered open at the sound of his Dad's voice. Disorientated, he rolled over and stared across his room at his clock, it was 8:30 in the morning. Michael groaned, he wasn't used to being woken up on the weekends, his mother's job meant that she was away all of the weekend and Michael only got to see her in the evenings during the week, if that. His dad, on the other hand, was normally too pissed to even remember that he had a son, let alone to wake him up in the morning. It was the norm for Michael to sleep in until at least 11, grab something to eat and then be out of the house half an hour later.

Michael sat up in bed wearily and rubbed at his eyes, as he did so he noticed blue powder coming away from his face and smudging itself across his hands.

'Oh no…' He mumbled, letting his eyes shut for a moment as he remembered his encounter with his sister's makeup box the previous night.

Michael often found himself delving through his sister's makeup; he was also a regular visitor to her wardrobe, although not too much lately, after she had almost caught him parading around in her best party dress. He'd been forced to hide in the bathroom for about an hour; until he was sure the coast was clear to return the dress without her noticing it had gone. No, he didn't want to risk being in that situation again.

Yawning, Michael swung his legs out from under the covers, but swiftly returned them to their warm abode when he felt the stark cold air stabbing at his bare skin.

'Christ!' he exclaimed with a shiver. Michael didn't do well in the winter time, he was very sensitive to the cold and liked to bundle himself up in layers upon layers, if only just to sit around the house. So, knowing this, Michael wrapped his duvet around himself and made a mad dash for his sock draw, grabbed a pair and quickly put them on. That way, at least his feet wouldn't freeze.

After decided he was too tired to make the effort of putting on trousers, he made his way to the bathroom, still wearing the duvet, to remove the evidence of his indulgences of the night before.

Michael had a habit of watching the ground when he was walking; kids at his school seemed to get kicks from tripping him up in the corridors, so he had trained himself to keep an eye out for them, to avoid further unnecessary embarrassment, which would give them even more excuses to tease him. Unfortunately, this method of walking had its flaws; one of these became apparent to Michael when he walked straight into his sister, who had stormed out of her room at the precise moment Michael was passing. Michael jumped backwards, shocked.

'Why don't you mind where you're going you little shite,' His sister spat at him.

'Piss off, Tracey,' Michael retorted.

Tracey was a tall, slim figure of a girl; she had long, dark brown, almost black hair, which was almost always pulled into a loose pony tail. She had large deep brown eyes and looked very much like an older, female version of Michael. For a 16 year old girl, she was very popular with older men, she brought home boyfriend after boyfriend all of whom were in their twenties. Not only that but she was also notorious for 'getting around' most of the boys in her own year. Needless to say, Tracey found it hard to sustain a relationship with anyone and was widely known as the 'village bike'. This being said, Tracey was almost as much of a loner as Michael was, all the girls in the area despised her and the boys had no respect for her. Michael would have felt quite sorry for Tracey, if she wasn't such a bitch to him all the time.

Tracey had a lot of anger problems, if something wasn't done exactly the way she wanted it to be done, she'd scream, swear and generally shout her mouth off at anyone who happened to be in the same room as her. She was also prone to trying to use Michael as a punch bag, to relieve her of frustration. Unfortunately for her, Michael was pretty good at dodging her attacks and managed to wriggle his way out of these situations. However, on those occasions where she did manage to land a kick or a punch, they hurt and Michael, although he'd never admit it, was quite frightened of Tracey when she got into one of her uncontrollable rages.

At Michael's remark, Tracey's lip curled nastily and her eyes narrowed, she grabbed Michael by the arm.

'Oi!' yelled Michael, struggling to get away, his duvet falling off his one shoulders as he did so 'Geroff!'

Tracey tightened her grip on his arm and stared hatefully into his face, noticing as she did so the remaining blue substance adhering Michael's eyes.

'What the fuck's that on your face?' She demanded.

Michaels eye's widened and he pushed her away from him, letting the duvet slip of the remaining shoulder it was hanging from and fall to the ground 'Nothin'' he said, avoiding her gaze.

'Have you been going through my make up again?' Tracey yelled at him, 'You little poof, we should get the fucking nut house onto you, you bent bastard…'

Tracey's blunt and harsh comment saw Michael give her an almighty shove that slammed her into the wall. He then continued towards the bathroom yelling as he went:

'Will you just shut up and go blow one of your middle aged perverts, you frigging dirty tart!'

He slammed the bathroom door, locked it and listened as Tracey's maddened yells got quieter as she no doubt went to whine to his dad about how his son was a 'fucking useless fairy.'

Michael moved over to the sink, turned on the tap, grabbed the soap and began scrubbing at his eyes and face. He made the mistake of opening his eyes to look at himself in the mirror, letting the soap drip into them.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck,' he cursed, noticing the stinging pain at once, he shut his eyes tightly and grasped blindly for the source of the water. On finding it, he splashed his face with water making sure all the soap was gone from his eyes. With a sigh he stared at his reflection in the mirror for a moment, before grabbing his toothbrush and quickly cleaning his teeth. After checking the mirror once more to make sure all the blue was gone from his face, he unlocked the bathroom door and headed for the stairs.

On arriving downstairs, Michael found his dad sitting in the living room armchair, reading the paper. The TV was on and Michael saw that Margaret Thatcher was giving a speech about something that Michael neither knew, nor cared about. Michael didn't really understand why everybody hated Margaret Thatcher, she seemed okay to him, a bit up herself admittedly, but still okay. He knew it had something to do with the Miner's strike a while back, but he'd never really bothered to ask questions into the subject. Then again, who was there to ask? His dad was hardly a bank of information on such topics and none of the kids in the neighborhood knew anything about politics. After a while of pondering this, Michael came to the conclusion that he was probably just better off blissfully unaware when it came to Political matters.

Michael's Dad turned to look at him as he entered the room.

'Mornin' son,' he said briefly, returning to his newspaper once more.

'Mornin'' mumbled Michael.

'I've heard you've been putting on our Tracey's make up.' Although he didn't sound angry, Michael knew his Dad wasn't pleased about this. He always avoided Michael's gaze and asked him a testing question, before exploding if he didn't receive the answer he wanted to hear.

'No, no I haven't.' said Michael nervously and quickly, knowing it was best to keep his answers short with his father.

'You better be telling the truth my son, because if I ever find out that you've been lying to me, there will be serious consequences, is that clear?'

'Aye,' Michael frowned at the back of his fathers head. Michael knew very well that his dad enjoyed dressing up in his mother's clothes, whenever he thought everyone was out. Michael had watched him from the confines of his room many times before. Why was it that he could do it, but if Michael even thought of dressing up, he'd get a hiding? It didn't seem fair at all.

'Good.' There was a pause and his father seemed satisfied, 'A letter's come for youze,' His father held out a small white envelope for Michael, which he took and looked confusedly at, before opening it. Inside the envelope was a small piece of crumpled paper, which was covered in messy black handwriting. At the top of the letter, there was a bold letter head which read: The Royal Ballet School.

Michael took a sharp in take of breath and whispered amazedly 'Billy…' He slumped into an armchair on the opposite side of the room to read further.

_Hullo Michael,_

_It's been a while, hasn't it? How long as it been since I last talked to you face to face, a year or two? Well, a long time anyway._

_Sorry I haven't written to you in ages, I haven't had much time. They work us so hard here; I'm basically asleep by 7 at night. I'm still enjoying it here though and I'm sure you haven't missed my letters that much anyway, I'm a bit of a boring sod when it comes to writing my feelings down._

Michael snorted "You want a bet?" he thought to himself.

He'd been really upset when Billy had stopped writing to him; he kept wondering whether Billy was angry at him and whether he should write and apologize, but decided that it would seem a bit desperate, especially since he didn't even know what he was supposed to be apologizing for and he didn't want Billy to feel pressured into writing back, just to keep him happy.

After months of waiting, Michael had given up on Billy ever writing to him again and tried to move on with his life. This, however, Michael found to be quite difficult, what with his only friend being Debbie, who was hardly a replacement for Billy. He could tell Billy anything, if he ever told Debbie anything personal he was sure it'd be spread around the whole neighborhood by the end of the week.

Through the loneliness of a life without Billy, he found himself reliving over and over the time he'd spent with Billy, while he was still with him. Especially the last time he ever saw Billy, where he had given Michael a kiss goodbye. This small action was the ultimate acceptance for Michael, because as well as Billy being his best friend; over the years Michael had developed rather the crush on Billy and to have his kiss returned, meant the world to Michael. It proved Billy didn't care whether he was gay, straight or otherwise, he just liked Michael for being himself and was still happy to be his friend.

He smiled as the memory replayed once more in his mind and then returned his gaze to the letter:

_I hope you're doing alright, mate. But anyway, the reason I'm writing to you now is I wanted to let you know, I'm coming home for Christmas! Yeah, Dad and our Tony have been saving up for me to come home from London and spend Christmas with the family. Nana's getting on a bit now and Dad says he thinks it's important I get to see her before she goes. Me and you'll have to meet up; we've got a lot to catch up on._

_See you on the 19th_

_Billy_

Michael stared at the page and re-read the last paragraph. Billy was coming home, finally, after all this time he would see his best friend again. Before now, Jackie and Tony had never had the money to pay for Billy take the train home and to provide for him during the time he stayed with them. It was fantastic news that they'd finally managed afford for him to come home, especially for Christmas.

Michael was elated, he folded the letter and put it back in its envelope.

'Well, who's it from?' his dad's voice broke his train of thought.

'Oh Billy,' Michael replied. 'Billy Elliot.'

'The kid who joined the Ballet School?'

'Yeah.'

Michael's dad nodded and said nothing more.

'He's coming home for Christmas, dad,' continued Michael, 'Says he'll be here on the 19th.'

'I didn't ask for his bloody life story, son. Now go and get some clothes on, and get out from under my nose.'

'Okay Dad.' Michael replied and headed upstairs once more, now used to his dad's strange mood swings.

Normally, Michael would've felt quite annoyed and hurt at his dad's blunt remark and blatant lack of respect for him. But not today, nothing could bring him down today.

Billy Elliot was coming home.


	2. The Acquiantance

Michael held his coat closely around himself as he walked through the streets of Everington. Although the sun was shining, the cold wind whipped around Michaels face, causing his cheeks and nose to sting and tint a husky red, reminding him that it was, indeed, still winter.

The streets of Everington were dull to say the least. They were all lined with the same run down, old houses, all tightly squeezed together as if the designers were desperately trying to fit more houses into space they hadn't got. To Michael, all of the houses looked exactly the same in Everington. They all had the same windows, the same door frames and all wore the same dull, non-descript colour schemes, which had quite obviously been painted on a budget, as most of the paintwork had either peeled or fallen off completely, leaving just the brickwork showing. Everywhere you looked in Everington, there were bricks. People would argue that this gave the town an antique atmosphere, but Michael just insisted it made the place an even more boring and monotonous area to live.

There never seemed to be any green in Everington, everything was greys or browns and all horribly industrial. There was hardly any foliage around where Michael lived. Even the fields seemed bare and lifeless in Everington, with their sandy up shootings and distinct lack of colour.

'That's what this place needs,' Michael mumbled to himself, as he often did whilst lost in thought, 'A bit of colour…'

As Michael shuffled sullenly through the streets, his thoughts once again turned to Billy. He smiled as he remembered complaining about Everington to Billy on days like this, as they walked through the streets. He remembered how cold it used to be and how Billy didn't like wearing coats; he always complained that the got in his way and stopped him being able to move properly. A great fan of movement was Billy, Michael reminded himself fondly. Although, unfortunately for Billy, even he got cold sometimes and when he did, he wouldn't give in and put on a coat, but instead, he'd dance around the place to keep himself warm.

Michael had felt so stupid and left out trailing along like a spare tire behind Billy, while he jumped, spun and kicked his way through the streets, causing people to stare in awe and sometimes amusement from all corners of Everington. But at the same time as feeling a misfit, Michael felt a swelling sense of pride in Billy's love of dancing and wholly enjoyed watching him fling himself down the streets like a mad thing. Whilst watching Billy's dancing Michael forgot about the boring industrial tones of the streets and found himself being immersed in the brightness of silent but uncontrollable passion. It seemed to Michael that Billy put the colour back into Everington.

Michael couldn't have been more pleased for his friend when he discovered he had a knack for ballet, even if he did think it an odd hobby for a lad to be doing. But nevertheless, Michael had always stood by Billy in whatever he wanted to do. Well, all except for boxing. But even Billy knew deep down that boxing was a load of shite and neither he, nor Michael saw any point in punching people around for fun.

'OI MICHAEL!'

The sound of a high pitched girl's voice crashed through Michael's thoughts and sent him hurtling back into reality. He jumped and turned sharply, to find the owner of the voice was perched on an old stretch of brick wall just behind him. It was Debbie; the only person his age who had really took the effort to make conversation with Michael after Billy left home.

Michael wasn't exactly pleased with having to hang around with Debbie, he found her tedious and rather annoying. But, he always told himself, beggars can't be choosers and without her, his social life would be practically non-existent. Like Michael, Debbie had also been fond of Billy, although she never really got to spend time with him like Michael had.

Billy was probably the only reason Debbie bothered with Michael, she was actually quite popular amongst the girls and some of the boys at school and therefore only really spent time with Michael on the weekends. But, she held on to her relationship (if it could be called that) with Michael, just in case Billy ever did come back to Everington. That way she hoped, as a friend of Michael's, she'd be able to hang around with Billy more often than she ever got to before.

Today, Debbie was wearing her favourite blue anorak, a pair of livid pink trousers and her hair was in pigtails tied with two pink bows. Although Debbie was 13 years old, she had gotten into the habit of dressing much younger her age. At least, Michael reckoned with himself, she didn't dress like a complete tart, as some of the popular girls her age were starting to. That was Debbie all over, always doing the complete opposite of what everyone wanted her to. She stared at Michael with a raised eyebrow.

'You could've at least said hullo like, Michael' she said.

Michael gave her a questioning look.

'I said hullo and you just ignored me,' Debbie explained, folding her arms, 'That's very rude, you know.'

'Sorry, I wasn't concentrating…' Michael mumbled, moving over to Debbie and jumping up onto the wall beside her.

'Day dreaming again?'

'You could say that.'

Debbie sighed, 'You and your day dreaming,' she paused for a moment and then continued, 'You know Michael, if you ever want to make friends like, you're going to have to start living in the real world once in a while.'

Michael rolled his eyes, 'Who are you like, me mam?' he asked, sarcastically, bored of Debbie constantly getting at him about bits of his personality she personally didn't like.

Debbie gave him a sideward glance before saying quietly, 'Well, somebody has to be don't they?'

'Don't go there Debbie,' said Michael, firing up.

'Well it's true like, isn't it?'

'Fuck off will you.'

Debbie looked away witheringly and sighed again, there was an uncomfortable silence. Debbie often said cutting things about Michael's mother, just to show him that she always had the upper hand in every argument. She knew that Michael and his mother weren't close; to say the least and she also knew that he was quite insecure about this fact. Michael loved his mam, just like any other child, but he did worry that perhaps his love was not returned. Michael hardly ever got to see his mother and when he did, they never really made any conversation and they certainly didn't express feelings of love for one another. In Michael's household, it just wasn't the done thing to say 'I love you'. Michael couldn't even remember the last time somebody had told him he was loved. It didn't really bother him or make him feel any less of a person; he just felt it would be nice once in a while for his family to behave like a family, rather than a group of strangers who just happened to live together.

Michael was the first to speak:

'What the bloody hell are you wearing, like?'

Debbie stared at him in disbelief and offense, 'What's wrong with what I'm wearing?'

'You look like you're about 5 years old,'

Debbie scowled, 'Well…' she faltered 'That's more than what I can say for your outfit.'

'What do you mean?'

'You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards, man.'

Michael looked down and studied his outfit. He didn't think he looked all that bad; all he was wearing was a pair of blue jeans and his favourite army green coat. He rolled his eyes again at Debbie's petty attempt at an insult.

'Whatever you say Debbie, love.'

'I'm not your love, Michael.'

There then came another uncomfortable silence. Whenever Debbie and Michael conversed with one another, these long silences came as almost a given and they were both pretty used to them now, in fact their conversations didn't seem whole without them. Michael moved away from the wall and began kicking a stone around passively, not wanting to seem committed to conversation. Debbie watched him quietly, also not wanting to seem interested, whilst swinging her feet. Michael kicked the stone up into the air, let it drop to the floor, and then repeated the motion over and over.

'Michael…' said Debbie after a while, deciding that they couldn't just ignore each other for the rest of the day.

'Hmm?' Michael was still consumed in kicking his stone around.

'What are you doing up at this time, I normally don't see you moping around like until dinner time.'

'Dad woke me up.'

'Your dad like? Isn't he normally pissed at this time?'

'Yeah, I know, I was surprised to.'

'What'd he want like?'

'He had a letter for me.'

'Oh…' Debbie paused for a moment, 'Who was it from?'

'Billy.'

'Elliot?'

'Yeah.'

'I thought you'd said he'd stopped writing to you.'

Knowing that Debbie wasn't going to drop the subject, now the topic had turned to Billy, Michael stopped playing with the stone. He shuffled back over to her and once again joined her on the wall.

'So did I,' he said then waited for Debbie's next inevitable question.

'Well, go on then, what did he say like?' She asked eagerly.

'Said he was doing alright,' Michael said, 'That he enjoyed school and that he was sorry he hadn't written to me for ages.'

'And?' Debbie pressed on.

'And, that he was coming home for Christmas.'

Debbie's eyes grew wide, 'Are you kidding me?' she asked.

'No, he said Jackie and Tony had been saving up to bring him home for a family Christmas like - said be here on the 19th ' Michael went on, glad in a way, that he had at least somebody he could talk to about Billy.

Debbie looked at him, 'You going to meet up with him then?'

'Yeah, probably,'

'Can I come?'

'If you want,' Michael said, feeling it would be cruel to say no, as Debbie had made the effort to keep him company, even if her friendship was slightly forced upon him.

Debbie smiled broadly 'Thanks, Michael' she added, almost affectionately.

The pair simultaneously became quiet at this point, as they stared across at the street in front of them, neither really concentrating on the other, both minds engaged with thoughts of Billy and his arrival.

'Debbie,' Said Michael, after a moment.

'What?'

Michael paused, wondering how best to word his next question.

'Do you like…have a thing for Billy?'

Debbie frowned slightly, 'What do you mean by a thing?'

'You know – a _thing_.' Michael put emphasis on the last word.

'Saying it in a different tone of voice doesn't make it any easier to understand, Michael.' Debbie snapped, impatient with Michael's simplicity.

Michael sighed, 'You know, do you fancy him, like?'

'Fancy him?' Debbie's cheeks flushed slightly, 'I – No!'

Michael looked at her, wearing an unconvinced expression.

'What? You don't believe me?' demanded Debbie, firing up and sharply continuing her impending lecture before Michael could answer, 'So, you think that just because I show an interest in Billy, that I automatically have to fancy him. You just assume that because I'd quite like to see him this Christmas, must mean that I want him to be my boyfriend, right? Despite the fact that this may be the last time I'll ever get to see him?' As she ranted at Michael her face became even more hot and bothered and began to merge from pink to red.

Michael swallowed uncomfortably and said 'I didn't mean it like that Debbie, I was just –'

'You know what,' Debbie cried, jumping to her feet, 'Forget you, Michael Caffery, you're an ignorant, self centered, useless loner and you can keep your little get together with Billy because you obviously don't want me stealing Billy's attention away from you.'

'Debbie, now come on –' Michael started, but Debbie interrupted him:

'In fact, just stay the hell away from me altogether; I want nothing more to do with you!'

Debbie turned on her heel and stormed away from Michael, her two pigtails bouncing up and down comically as she did so.

'Oh!' and she said, swinging herself around to glare at Michael once more, 'And don't even think of following me home because, I swear to god, I'll call the police, you got that?'

As Debbie's flounced off into the distance, Michael started to understand why he preferred the company of lads – girls were more effort than they were worth.


	3. The Truce

It was seven in the evening before Michael finally made his way to Debbie's house. He had decided it was probably better to have Debbie as a friend rather than an enemy and that perhaps it was true that he had spoken out of place in their earlier conversation. Michael wasn't convinced for a moment that Debbie didn't like Billy, she made it pretty obvious, but it seemed he'd hit a nerve of Debbie's with his question and it was probably best to apologize now, rather than let her stew on it and get even more pissed off with him.

Michael sauntered slowly down Debbie's street, he always felt out of place in her neighbourhood. It was a lot more posh than he was used to; all the houses were neat and almost pretty, they were all lined with well kept front gardens which were likely to be the pride of the man of the house. A lot of the houses had hanging baskets adorning their door and window frames, it was all, in Michael's opinion, very up itself. It was all just so fancy and proper, completely different from the streets that Michael spent most of his time in.

After dodging the neighbour's angry dog that always seemed to be barking at something or other, Michael made his way past the big Ford Granada on the Wilkinson's drive and up to their front door. He paused before rapping softly on the glossy dark brown painted wood.

A moment passed before the door opened to reveal Mrs Wilkinson, Debbie's mother and Billy's former dance teacher, standing in the doorway wearing an oversized, fluffy pink jumper and a pair of worn-out jeans. She studied Michael for a second with an air of surprise before taking her fag out of her mouth to say:

'She's not very happy with you,'

Michael shifted slightly, there was something about Mrs Wilkinson that made him feel slightly uneasy, it felt to Michael almost as if she could determine his thoughts just by looking at him.

She sighed and moved to the side, making room for Michael to enter.

'Come in then,' she said before taking a drag from her cigarette, 'She's in her room.'

'Tar,' Michael mumbled, as he entered the Wilkinson's home. The hallway was very artsy, which was only to be expected in the neighborhood the Wilkinson's resided in; the whole place was very 'artsy'. This led straight into their, also very fancy and (compared to Michael's own) very large kitchen. A big painting of flowers hung just above a neat wooden chest of drawers which had different pots and vases balanced neatly on top. Some of these contained flowers and others stood there merely for decoration.

Michael made his way up the stairs and onto the landing, looking about bemusedly at more sickly artwork as he did so, he'd never cared much for pretty romantic scenes or brashly colourfull paintings of flowers. He paced his way down the aqua blue carpeted flooring until he came to the door which had hanging on it: a little wooden plaque with the form of a ballerina painted neatly upon it, the plaque read: Debbie's room. Michael knocked tentatively.

'What Mam?' The sound of Debbie's voice came from the other side of the door. Although slightly muffled, Michael could tell from her tone that Debbie was not in the best of moods and, he mused, that it might be a good idea for him to come back another time when her mood had improved. But, he said to himself, he was here now, there would be no sense in backing out and having to explain to Debbie's mam just why he hadn't stayed longer than five minutes. That was a conversation Michael wasn't overly keen on having.

'It's Michael.' He said gruffly, feeling rather stupid talking to the door.

'Didn't I tell you to piss off, like?' Cried Debbie shrilly from the other side.

'Well, yeah but –'

'Don't, 'yeah but' me Michael Caffery,' she cried, her voice gradually getting higher as she went on 'Get the fuck out of my house!'

'Oi, your mam let me in!' Michael retorted in his defense.

'Does it sound like I give a shit who she lets in?' Debbie yelled 'Fuck off!'

'Debbie!' Mrs Wilkinson's voice traveled up the stairs 'Watch your mouth, my girl!'

A strangled, aggravated cry of frustration could be heard from Debbie's room and Michael listened to the thumping of Debbie's footsteps as she made her way to the door. She opened it just enough for Michael to she her face. She had taken down out her pigtails and her hair was now messily framing her face which was slightly red in colour from being so annoyed.

'Look,' she said in a hushed tone, 'Just go home, I don't want to talk with youze.'

Michael opened his mouth to defend himself but before he could speak Debbie had shut the door.

'Ah, Debbie, come on,' said Michael exasperatedly, he hated it when Debbie got up on her high horse like this, he always ended up begging for her forgiveness for the most minor of things, 'Look, I'm sorry, okay? I shouldnt've said what I did, like. It was stupid and I'm - I'm just sorry…'

'Well, you should be.' Said Debbie, leaving the door closed but lingering in the doorway, waiting for Michael to grovel some more.

Michael sighed heavily, looked up at the ceiling and mumbled 'Forgive me?'

'What?'

'I said: Do you forgive me?' Michael said, slightly louder this time.

'What? Michael stop bloody mumbling I've told you so many times!'

'Do you fucking forgive me?' Michael shouted at the door in a patronizing manner, aware that Debbie probably could hear his question, but was choosing not to acknowledge, just for the sake of humiliating him some more.

'Oh, for fuck's sake,' Mrs Wilkinson called up the stairs, 'Language!'

'Sorry, Mrs Wilkinson' Michael replied, slightly abashed.

At this point, Debbie opened the door again, obviously satisfied that Michael had learned his lesson.

'Well?' Michael asked her, huffily.

'I guess you're forgiven,' Debbie said in a coy tone.

Michael closed his eyes for a moment, sighed then opened them again. Debbie was still in the doorway, staring at him with a condescending expression.

'What?' he asked.

'Nothing, it's just,' She paused 'You are a funny bugger sometimes, Michael'

'You can talk,' Michael muttered.

Debbie glared at him, 'Well, what do you want then?'

Michael shrugged 'Just to say I was sorry, like.'

'Well, see youze then.' Debbie began to shut her door once more.

'Wait, Debbie!' Michael said quickly.

'What, like?' Said Debbie as she opened the door again.

'Don't you want to talk or something?' Michael said, 'Now I'm here and that.'

'Not really, do you?'

'Well – sort of, I guess.'

Debbie sighed 'Go on then.' She said.

Michael stepped past Debbie and into her room. The walls were still covered in the same old swan wallpaper Debbie first had put up when she was 8, though by now, it had seen better days. Her bed was covered in crisp white linen with a slight floral pattern (which was hardly detectable as it was also sewn in white) everything in Debbie's house seemed to have some kind of flower based theme to it. There were also still a few cuddly toys from Debbie's younger years still scattered on her bed and floor and even though Debbie had given ballet lessons up a year ago, her certificates still hung on the wall about her bed.

In front of her bed was a small cluttered desk with a chair and, next to it, a wardrobe where Debbie kept all her clothes. It was a very small but quaint room and despite the femininity of it all, Michael felt quite comfortable in there. On particularly cold days he'd often stay in Debbie's room for whole days at a time, just idly wasting time with her whilst it was too cold for them to piss about outside. They'd occasionally go round Michael's house, but Debbie always complained about how small it was or how there was nothing to do or nothing to eat. Michael couldn't help but agree with Debbie here, he enjoyed being in Debbie's room much more than he did being in his own and so, Michael was quite the regular visitor to Debbie's room.

He sat on the edge of the bed and watched Debbie as she moved from the doorway to sit down beside him.

'So…' Said Debbie, struggling to start a conversation.

'So…' Michael repeated, also trying to think of a topic.

Debbie laughed slightly and smiled 'How's life?'

'Not bad, yours?'

'The same.'

The pair fell quiet for a moment before Michael said 'You know Debbie, you can come and see Billy with me whenever you like I don't…'

'I know, Michael, I know.' Debbie interrupted, 'I just – I dunno, it's just so weird.'

'What's weird?'

'Billy coming home,' Debbie replied as she looked across the room.

She stopped for a moment; Michael watched her, waiting for her to continue.

'I never really got to say goodbye like, you know.' Debbie continued, talking more to herself than Michael, 'I wanted to, but, I dunno…'

Michael shifted uncomfortably; he wasn't used to being confronted with Debbie's feelings about Billy, or anything really. The conversations Debbie and Michael held never really had to deal with emotions and that was normally how Debbie and Michael preferred it, as neither really trusted the other with their inner most feelings. Michael didn't really know how to deal with the situation, she had caught him completely off-guard and he knew that if he said the wrong thing now, Debbie could quite easily hold it against him for the rest of his years. No, the best thing for him to do how was just to keep quiet and hope that Debbie changed to subject.

'I guess I was embarrassed or something, I can't really remember,' said Debbie, 'I just remember mam telling me Billy had left and that was it. I remember feeling well gutted…'

Michael avoided looking at Debbie, he could tell from her voice that she was upset and that maybe by asking her if she fancied Billy, he'd brought back some unpleasant memories for her. Michael felt bad that he might've made Debbie feel this way, it was never his intention to bring back moments Debbie'd prefer to forget – he wanted to say something, but he was lost for words, everyone knew that speaking wasn't one of Michael's strong points.

'So anyway,' Debbie said, sensing Michaels discomfort and quickly changing the direction of the conversation, 'How long is he staying here for then?

'I dunno,' Michael answered, he hadn't thought about that until now, 'He didn't say.'

'Well, you can ask him in your next letter then.'

'No I can't.' Michael answered quickly, 'There's no point me writing another letter, the 19th is in like, a week init.'

'Haven't you got his phone number or something?'

'Nah, I never asked for one like.'

Debbie sighed, annoyed, 'Michael you really are stupid sometimes you know.'

'Thanks for that, Debbie.'

'Well, it's true.'

Michael sniffed and grinned at Debbie

'What are you laughing about?' She asked, frowning.

'You never get bored of nagging me do you like, Deb?'

Debbie rolled her eyes at him, 'For gods sake Michael, how many times do I have to tell you, I'm not nagging – merely suggesting things that you could change…' she paused, realizing she'd let the wrong word slip out '_Improve_ about your personality, is all.' She paused and added maliciously 'And since when have you started calling me 'Deb'? I'm sure I've told you I don't like that name, you never listen to me like, do you?'

Michael laughed out loud this time, Debbie was just so clueless to how intolerant of him she was sometimes, he pushed Debbie slightly. Debbie, being as over-dramatic as usual, rolled off her bed and onto the floor, Michael laughed even harder at her and she lay sprawled out of the floor, looking up angrily at him, her cheeks flushing.

'I'm glad one of us finds it funny - you woman-beater!' She said as she grabbed hold of Michael's trouser legs and gave them a great yank attempting to bring Michael to the floor with her. However, as Michael was pulled off the bed his trousers also gave way and ended up dangling below his knees. Michael fell to the floor as he aimed an intangible string of swear words at Debbie. The couple then became awkwardly quiet, breathing hard, Michael pulling up his trousers and both of them blushing profusely.

'Nice boxers,' sniggered Debbie, after the initial shock of the incident had died down.

Michael looked at her, shocked for a moment and then laughed along with her: 'Next time one of us pulls something like that' he said 'I get to see your bra.'

Debbie smiled, 'It's a deal, Michael' she said whilst sitting up and adjusting herself.

It was then that Debbie's room door was swung open by Mrs. Wilkinson; Michael sat up quickly, hastily checking that his trousers were where they were supposed to be.

Mrs. Wilkinson looked at him and said, 'I don't know what you two've been playing up at up here, but all I've heard all bloody night is foul language, yelling and a lot of god damn banging.' She turned to Debbie, 'Next time this one comes round' she nodded her head towards Michael, 'I'm expecting to have none of the bother I've had tonight, otherwise he won't be able to come round again - you got that m'girl?'

'Yes mam…' Debbie droned with a heavy sigh.

'I don't know, I've never heard the like! I dunno what the hell has gotten into you two tonight' she ranted 'It's been driving your bloody father up the wall, ranting and raving about how he's always said you're too irresponsible to have a frigging boy in your room, ' she said shrilly, 'As if your father isn't enough bother for me already with him moaning at me all night it's like blooming hell on Earth I tell you.'

'Sorry mam…' Debbie said monotonously, it was obvious that she got this kind of lecture quite a lot.

Michael began to feel extremely unwelcome and uncomfortable in Debbie's room and took to looking directly at her floor again.

Mrs. Wilkinson then addressed him 'Michael,' she said, still sounding annoyed but in a more comforting tone, which eased Michael into making eye contact with her, 'It's eight 'o' clock now, love. I think you should be getting home.'

Michael nodded and stood up, 'Thanks for having me Mrs. Wilkinson, sorry for being so loud.'

Mrs Wilkinson glanced over at Michael, looking him up and down quickly 'Yes, well...' she said swiftly, in that tone adults use when they're trying to politely and subtly point out that they're pissed off with you. She then added in the same tone:

'I suppose you'll be wanting a lift back then, will you?'

'No,' said Michael quickly, thinking that the walk home would most likely be less cold than the conversation between him and Mrs. Wilkinson during a drive back to his house. 'It's alright, I'll walk.'

'Suit yourself, love.' Mrs. Wilkinson sighing, as she opened Debbie's room door as a signal to Michael that it was time for him to leave.

'See you tomorrow, Debbie.' He said, with an awkward wave and a nervous glance at her mother as he got up from the floor. Personally, he thought it was absurd that Debbie's father thought anything, well just anything, would happen between Debbie and him. Michael thought it was clear as day that Debbie and himself were hardly up for going out with each other.

He walked out the room and Mrs. Wilkinson shut Debbie's door, Michael heard a faint 'See you, Michael' come from the other side of the door as he made his way down the stairs.

He smiled to himself as he waved goodbye to Mrs. Wilkinson, apologizing once more for being such a nuisance. As much as Michael hated to admit it, he'd actually quite enjoyed talking and pissing about with Debbie that night – maybe she wasn't all _that _annoying after all.


End file.
